


Witch of the Wastelands

by regin_the_radiant



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout - Fandom, Fallout 3
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Ghouls, Hurt/Comfort, I mean kind of, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 02:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6102500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regin_the_radiant/pseuds/regin_the_radiant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is excruciatingly naive; a young crusader. Her concept of morality is childishly simple: pure-white versus pitch-black. And yet, standing beside her is like standing beside the moon. Man and beast alike are drawn in like brainless moths for even a glimmer of her affection. At times, Charon wonders what that makes him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Incident at the Ninth Circle

The sentry outside of the Museum of History hadn’t moved in three hours. While Nil’s intentions were well-meaning, the Underworld was not renowned for welcoming smoothskinned tourists with open arms. She was rather nervous that she would be sent away at the gate, making future entry even more difficult-- and it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission. So she sat, waiting for the opportunity to sneak past.

She watched as the guard cupped her hand around the end of a cigarette and lit it. From this distance, the flame was no more than a pinpoint of light. Nil didn’t smoke, but she could hypothetically envision—and appreciate—the creature comfort of a cigarette to a smoker. It reminded her of the ache in her feet and the gritty discomfort of her dirty clothes and dried sweat. She wanted to take a shower and sleep in a bed. 

With that thought in mind, she girded her loins and rose to her feet, brushing the dust from her clothes. Her stomach growled as she approached—probably loud enough to announce her arrival—but nevertheless, she decided to announce herself in order to prevent being shot to death in this burnt-out old plaza.

“Hello over there,” she called, feeling awkward. 

“Was wonderin’ when you’d nut up and come over here,” the sentry said, gazing nonchalantly in the opposite direction. A wry smile crept over her face.

All at once, Nil felt somewhat foolish. “You could see me?” 

“Come on, girl. Could have seen you from a mile out,” the sentry remarked laughingly. “Figured you didn’t look too dangerous, scrabbling around on your belly like a sad little snake woman.” Dragging her eyes up and down Nil’s outfit, the sentry asked, “Where did you stumble out of, and are they all as super stealthy as you?”

Funny you should ask, Nil thought to herself, keeping her eyes trained away from her Pip-Boy. “Hey, you’re a funny lady. You should go on the road with that act,” she replied, still slightly embarrassed. 

The sentry’s smirk lingered. “Anyway. Name’s Willow. You looking for passage into Underworld, or you just a history buff?” 

“The first one,” Nil conceded. “Is that… okay?” 

Willow smiled at her reassuringly. “We don’t get too many of your kind in here, but you’re welcome to roam around long as you aren’t causing trouble. Or a bigot.” She punctuated this statement with another pointed look, as though questioning Nil's intentions.

“Yeah, nothing like that. I’m just here to deliver a message. Do you know where I might find a… Carol?” Nil asked. “And a bed, and a drink while I’m at it?”

“Carol’s up at her place, which is conveniently also where you might find a bed; behind the Ninth Circle, which is conveniently also where you might find a drink,” Willow advised, nodding toward the entrance. “Head on through, underneath the big skull. The Ninth Circle is up the stairs on the left.” 

“Thanks,” Nil said with a grateful sigh, shifting the weight of her pack over onto the other shoulder before trudging toward the door. 

“Later, smoothskin,” the sentry responded before giving her a last enigmatic smile and sidling off to the exterior of the plaza. 

***  
Compared to the sterile gray-blues of the Vault, the Underworld’s soft reds and golds seemed imposing, stately, even opulent. Even in her exhaustion, Nil felt much older than her twenty-two years as she climbed the steps toward the bar.

The Ninth Circle, Nil found, was aptly named-- truly a forgotten circle of hell. The bar was dimly lit and swamped with the scents of smoke and stale beer. The bartender was too friendly—bordering on licentious. Though the night was still young, an overwhelming majority of the patrons were already well on their way to a chem-induced stupor. Overall, the atmosphere was as seedy as the old pre-war films made bars out to be-- but it did nothing to dampen her desire for the effortless lull of alcohol. After placing her bag on the floor beneath the table, she nursed her vodka in the corner, watching the people come and go with tired eyes. 

After some time, she took notice of the bouncer, who was posted up with his back against the wall to her left. The cold wariness of his stare contrasted sharply with the fuzzy drunkenness of the clientele. With his imposing stature—six-foot-four, Nil hypothesized—and the latent power of his lean musculature, he looked like he belonged out in the field with Willow the sentry. It made her contemplate how much trouble actually started in this bar.

As luck would have it, she did not have to wonder for long. A fellow patron of the establishment slid into the seat in front of her, obscuring her view of the bouncer. He leaned in, baring a set of chalky teeth in a ghoul’s parody of a smile. 

“Never seen you around these parts,” he remarked. Nil thought his speech as a bit slurred, but given the condition of his ghoulified vocal cords she supposed she wasn’t sure.

Ever the diplomat, Nil nodded, hoping that her forced air of extroversion was convincing. “Yep. I’m, ah… kind of touring the area. Never been here before.” She offered him as cordial a smile as she could muster.

“Want some company?” His own grin deepened, and suddenly Nil’s personal space had shrunk again. She could smell beer on his breath. 

It seemed that the bartender, whose name was something like Asriel or Aslan or Azazel (Nil thought), had been watching them. “Lay off my newest customer, Gourlav,” he said, a note of warning in his gravelly voice. “Bad for business.” 

Grateful for the interruption, Nil gave her admirer a false apologetic smile. “I think I’m actually going to turn in, anyway. Long day, and all that.” She yawned, stretching. 

“I understand. Have a nice night and all, miss,” the ghoul drawled, inclining his head to her as he rose and turned to leave.

Nil blinked. What a strange, courteous end to this conversation, she thought as she grasped for her possessions under the table—

Her hand came up empty. And as her rebuffed suitor headed to the exit, she noticed through the haze of smoke and dust that he had in his possession not one, but two rucksacks, one of which appeared strikingly familiar—

“My—that’s my—“ she stammered out, gesturing vaguely at his retreating form. With shrewd eyes, Possibly-Azazel glanced in that direction. 

“Charon,” he barked, flicking two fingers off in that direction. Her thief let out a yip of fear as the bouncer lurched forward, but he still managed to beat his pursuer out the door. 

There was a long, pregnant silence as the entire bar waited for the bouncer to return. All at once, Nil felt a sick sense of foreboding, as if the rest of these bar-goers waited in knowing expectation of some new spectacle. 

“Third fuckin’ alkie to get robbed this week,” the bartender groused, wiping down the bar with a dingy rag. “Gonna be no caps left for boozin’.” The silence continued for long seconds. 

The door burst open—the bouncer, dragging her thief back into the bar with one hand. In the other was her beloved pack, the vessel housing all her worldly possessions. Despite her unease, the sight of the pack was a relief. 

“Well, Gour, I guess that solves the mystery of the bar pickpocket,” the bartender drawled. 

“You caught me, Ahzrukhal,” the other man gritted out. The voice that had seemed slurred just moments ago was now starkly sober, and it occurred to Nil that the “lascivious drunk” act was just that—an act. “Let me go and I swear to you, I’m out, I’ll never come back here. To the Underworld.” He lifted his head, offering Ahzrukhal a weakly penitent smile. 

The grin that stretched across Ahzrukhal’s face was now so vicious and feral that Nil could scarcely believe he was the same man who had poured her vodka just minutes earlier. “Charon,” he started, inclining his head toward Nil, “why don’t you hand our young guest here her belongings? Free up a hand.” 

As if regarding her for the first time, Charon stiffly handed Nil her rucksack. “Thank you,” she said haltingly. 

“Charon, seat Gourlav at the bar,” Ahzrukhal continued, watching their movements with an odd expression. Charon complied, pushing the pickpocket forward as though he were merely a bulky mannequin—big, awkward, but not heavy. Gourlav’s limbs were frozen with apprehension. 

“Have a beer, Gour. On the house,” Ahzrukhal simpered. He pushed a chipped glass stein of lukewarm beer across the bar, keeping his expression carefully neutral.

Evidently, Gourlav was taken aback by this course of events—and suspicious. “I swear, Ahz. You ain’t gonna see hide nor tail of me. I’ll be out of Underworld in an hour, I swear.” 

“Take the beer, Gour. I insist.”

Hesitantly, the pickpocket reached for the drink. 

Blood sprayed forth in a wild, messy arc, and Ahzrukhal’s blade could only be perceived as it was jerked out of the bar beneath Gourlav’s severed wrist. The force with which the bartender had swung the knife had lodged it firmly in the wooden countertop. 

“What did you think I meant,” Ahzrukhal thundered, deranged, “by freeing up a fucking hand?” His screams of laughter echoed in cacophony with Gourlav’s unintelligible shrieks. In some quiet, unfazed corner of Nil’s mind, she wondered whether the hand could be salvaged, reattached. The unstoppable spurting of arterial blood seemed at odds with that notion.

As luck would have it, the idea was shot down, both literally and figuratively, by two quick bursts from a shotgun, planted directly in Gourlav’s back. He slumped forward, then crumpled to the ground, and the bar was suddenly silent again. Charon’s expression was grim as he replaced his weapon at his back. 

Clearly displeased with this small display of mercy, Ahzrukhal narrowed his eyes at his bouncer. Then, as if remembering his role as the gracious host, Ahzrukhal straightened. “Well, ladies and gents, it looks like we might have to close for the night,” he announced. “Or at least a few hours. Scoop up some of this goddamn blood, get this goddamn body out of here,” he groused again, shooting Charon an accusatory glance. 

Nil sensed that the bouncer would pay for this small treason later on; whether in a garnish of pay or in some other treatment, she did not know.

“Calling it a night already? Sleep tight, smoothskin,” Ahzrukhal called after her merrily—another whiplash change of temper. “Don’t worry. I’ll have Charon stand guard tonight. Safe as kittens.” 

She inclined her head stiffly, then rose and moved toward the door to Carol’s Place as quickly as she could. She desperately wanted her human interaction to be over for the night. 

But she did not want to ignore the bouncer who had retrieved her only belongings in the world, and who brought about a swift and merciful end to the horror show.

“Thank you,” she whispered to him as she passed. His stare was trained on her, but otherwise impassive, stoic. She almost wondered if he had heard her.

The innkeeper, Carol, was blithely ignorant of the chaos that had just transpired, but she was overjoyed to hear news of Gob. She ushered Nil to a room with a clean bed, and the wanderer could have kissed her.

The last thought that registered before Nil slipped into oblivion: This place is completely fucked.


	2. A Bargain at Any Price

Nil woke late in the day, bleary-eyed and disoriented. It had not been a restful sleep. Several times she found herself sliding back into consciousness, aware of her surroundings, of the texture of the bed beneath her.

 

She heard her own heartbeat, and in it she could hear the rhythm of the thief’s blood, pumping its way out of his veins. When she closed her eyes, she thought of the slaves in Paradise Falls. She thought about the weight of metal pressing down on one’s throat, and the heavier burden of knowing that that collar could end your life at any time.

 

But most of all, she thought of the bouncer—thought of his coldness, thought of the vitality of his presence. A feeling—an overwhelming intuitive feeling passed through her, but she couldn’t quite fathom its meaning. It was like patching together scraps of text in different languages—catching a phrase here or there; not knowing how or if they were related, or which came first or what their overall meaning was.

 

She dressed hastily, but found herself waiting until true nightfall to re-enter the Ninth Circle. She found herself tempted to use chems to dull the nervous edge she felt upon waking, but the threat of the resulting crash kept her from using them—so she sat, on edge, waiting.

 

She was leaving, and the bouncer was leaving with her.

 

Ahzrukhal was there, behind the bar, crouching to tend to his stock behind the counter. He took no notice of her as she entered. The bouncer, however, watched her warily, standing in the corner, completely unmoved.

 

She blinked. He looked as though he hadn’t moved, and perhaps this was simply due to routine, but… Nil recalled Ahzrukhal’s accusing glance. She realized, intuitively, belatedly, that Charon had indeed stood watch all night.

 

“Hey. Thanks again for the help last night,” she whispered in a low tone, approaching slowly. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but she cut him off. “Let me guess. I should talk to Ahzrukhal?”

 

He recrossed his arms, shifting his stance almost imperceptibly, but did not respond.

 

_Fine, grouchy_ , she thought to herself, huffing in frustration. She backed away, taking a seat at the bar and clasping her hands in front of her. “Could I trouble you for a bottle of vodka, Ahz?” she asked casually, doing her best to imbue her voice with as much unthreatening coquetry as she could muster. It wasn’t much, but it was generally enough.

 

“Ah, my new customer. Glad to see that pesky business last night didn’t scare you off,” the ghoul said, producing an unopened bottle. “That’ll be twenty caps.”

 

She pushed them to the other side of the bar, taking care not to reveal the rest of her caps stashed inside the bag. “So, let me ask you something. What crawled up Skippy’s ass and died?” she asked, wiggling the bottle of vodka into her pack.

 

The ghoul let out an insincere chuckle. “Who, Charon? Let’s just say… well, he’s a loyal employee. I hold his contract, which makes me his employer. He will do what I ask, when I ask, without question.” His grin was wide.

 

“Sounds like a slave,” Nil commented, taking care not to betray her emotions through her expressions.

 

“He is not. Madam, you insult me. I do not believe in slavery. It is an abomination.” His denial was smooth, glib, practiced. It reminded her of the Overseer. “I am a firm believer in personal choice. To force another person into bondage is unthinkable. Chains are earned, never forced.”

 

“Then how did he—“ she hesitated to use his words—“ _earn_ such a unique situation of employment?”

 

That rehearsed congeniality was in full effect when he spoke next, but his tone brooked no further discussion. “Charon made some choices that landed him in my employ. The circumstances of our contract are between him and I -- no one else.”

 

_Don’t believe him,_ a small voice said inside of her _. Don’t believe him. Do it._

 

_Fuck it,_ Nil thought. _Time to go._ Her instincts dominated. “To be frank with you, I could use a hired gun with those kinds of terms and conditions,” she said. “Especially after last night. You really can’t travel alone in the wastes these days,” she said with a disconsolate look. She needed to plant the seed in his mind—the concept that he could part with Charon today and make a profit off this hapless wastelander—

 

“Nothing doin’, sister,” Ahzrukhal said, narrowing his eyes at her despite his grin. “You see the chaos around here. My livelihood is at stake.” His gaze shifted to Charon, and somehow his look had grown smug. “Maybe someday, for the right price.”

 

Plan A failed. Her heart rate slightly elevated, Nil asked, “And what is the right price?”

 

Ahzrukhal gave her a shrewd once-over, obviously evaluating her net worth. With the state of her armor, Nil thought, she couldn’t have looked like a woman with more than five-hundred caps to her name. After this cursory evaluation, the bartender tilted his head backward, shifting his stance to appear more confident. “Two-thousand caps. Up front. Now, persistent little wastelander, do you mean to tell me you would pay two-thousand caps for my Charon?”

 

Nil smiled.

 

***

Charon watched as Ahzrukhal sized up the wastelander. They had been talking for several moments now, and he wondered what matter was so pressing that the girl would consent to stay in town a moment longer than necessary, after last night’s fiasco.

 

Although he couldn’t make out all of their conversation, he was a competent interpreter of body language, and this girl’s body language did not inspire confidence. He wondered how—and how long—she had been getting on in the wastes. Her skin was smooth—even smoother than the average smoothskin’s.

 

A vaultie, maybe? Perhaps she was raised in the youth colony to the northwest—an underground hidden city—but even there, surely she would have cultivated a bit more self-assurance.

 

With Ahzrukhal’s conniving nature, she needed it, if she planned to barter…

 

All at once, her stance changed, as though she had been dealt a winning hand. She pulled her rucksack over her knee and scrounged around for a moment, retrieving a smaller pouch. He could hear the clinking of caps—faint, but distinctive.

 

She slapped down a roll of caps wrapped in linen—a hundred, by the bulk of the package. He swore that he could see a ghost of a smirk play across her lips. Then another, and another, and another—

 

Perhaps she had come to invest in the chem trade in the Underworld. An investment that large could upscale Ahzrukhal’s operations fourfold—and a smoothskin like her could probably sleep easy knowing that the drugs were only going toward ruining the lives of ghouls, not humans.

 

If not that, perhaps Ahzrukhal had offered to broker a deal for her via Paradise Falls. It wouldn’t be the first time he had undertaken such dealings—for a nominal commission, of course.

 

She was finished counting, finally. Twenty wrapped parcels of caps, in total. She slid them across the bar in silence with a cordial smile.

 

As though weighing his options, Ahzrukhal hefted one parcel in his left hand. Brief words passed between them, and suddenly Ahzrukhal was reaching into his breast pocket, and extracting that most hated scrap of paper—

 

It was no Paradise Falls brokerage. He was the merchandise.

 

Adrenaline flooded his system, stronger than it had in years. No bar fight, no raiders, nothing could have mimicked the tide of anticipation he felt at this moment. He felt oddly lightheaded. He felt his hand flex as though it grasped the trigger of his shotgun. Curt words passed between his employer and the newcomer, and suddenly it was over.

 

The smoothskin was approaching him now, her expression pleased. His breathing shallowed with hate. As she spoke, he found himself interrupting from habit—“Talk to—“ but she interrupted him before he could finish.

 

“No more of that. I have good news. I’m your new employer,” she said, giving him that same steady smile.

 

Now was his chance, in the split seconds before the weight of the contract found him again and forced him to obey, forced him in fifty different directions of obligation. He muttered some half-hearted courtesy phrase, then excused himself. “I must take care of something,” he said, voice low.

 

“Yeah, grab your stuff, do whatever,” she said sunnily. She had no concept of what he was about to do.

 

His strides were powerful, heavy, long. He walked, for a few moments, like a free man. “Ahzrukhal,” he called out, louder than intended. “I understand that I am not longer in your employ.”

 

“Yes,” Ahzrukhal said, turning to face Charon. “Come to say goodb—“

 

“Yes,” Charon answered, emptying two quick bursts into his old employer’s forehead. He dropped to the ground like a stone, and yet Charon could not help but fire another round straight through his chest as he lay dead at Charon’s feet.

 

He took one long, sweet breath as a free man before turning to face his new employer. And then as quickly as it had come, the fresh feeling of freedom dissipated.

 

“What,” Nil bit out, “the fuck?” Her hands hung helplessly at the level of her chest. The patrons of The Ninth Circle scattered, panicked, for the second time in as many days.

 

“Ahzrukhal was an evil bastard,” Charon replied, not bothering to raise his voice enough to be heard, but feeling that he at least owed his new employer some perfunctory explanation. He stowed his weapon. “So long as he held my contract, I was bound to him. But now you are my employer, which freed me to rid the world of that disgusting rat. And now, for good or ill, I serve you.”

 

She looked as though she was expecting a more detailed explanation. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t be getting one out of him without a direct, explicit order—

 

“You know what? I’ll take your word for it,” she said evenly, choosing her words carefully. He stared, suspicious. She was entirely too accepting of this unprovoked attack. She leaned over the bar for a moment, inspecting the carnage. “Well, shit. I’m getting out of Dodge before the authorities catch wind that we did this, and I assume you’re going to want to, too…”

 

She paused, looking for Charon as if for validation. When none came, she nodded decisively. “Let’s get out of here.”

 

Several aspects of this pronouncement confused Charon. First, she used the word “we”, as if they were jointly burdened with the crime of murdering his former employer. Second, her words implied that she sought his opinion—and that he was somehow not obligated to follow her regardless of his wishes. Chalking it up to some misinterpretation, he followed her out of the bar with long, loping steps.

 

The pair of them earned odd looks from passers-by as they strode toward the exit. Seldom did Charon leave the Ninth Circle for business not strictly related to chems or Ahzrukhal’s slaver brokerage—and here he was, striding to the exit, behind this young, attractive female smoothskin, no less. An odd day for the Underworld, all around, he supposed.

 

***

 

As they traversed the exhibit hall separating the Underworld and the wastes, Charon felt the weight of his contract settling in again, as solid and as heavy as a stone. Though he had long considered his employment with a certain sense of resignation and acceptance, that momentary burst of freedom had been so sweet that the feeling of his renewed servitude was bitter.

 

As soon as they opened the great doors to the Capital wasteland, his employer drew a great breath, stretching her arms out and sucking in the nighttime air. “Jesus. Glad that’s over.”

 

Charon was silent, but pursed his lips noncommittally. The woman sat on the ground, dropping her pack and rummaging through its contents. She drew out a bottle of purified water, proffering it to him. He shook his head, and she tilted the bottle to the sky, draining it.

 

Then she was rifling through the pack again, this time at the outermost, shallowest pockets. Without orders, Charon took the opportunity to scan the horizon for dangers—his first real act in the employ of his new contract-holder. He felt bitterness.

 

Finding whatever it was she searched for, she stood, wiping her hands on her pants before extending a hand to him.

 

He looked down. In her loose grasp were the tattered remains of his contract. She was handing it over to him, handing him his two hundred years of contractual obligation, as casually and unceremoniously as if it was a discarded mutfruit core.

 

He was dumbfounded; her expression was nonchalant. They stared at each other for long moments.

 

Apparently coming to the realization that no verbal response was forthcoming, his employer raised a hand, patting him on the right shoulder. “Alright, buddy. Good talk. You, ah… you take care of yourself,” she said awkwardly, pressing her lips together and nodding uncomfortably. “I’ll, ah… see you, maybe.” She glanced away, evidently charting out her next route—then set off across the plaza.

 

“You can’t—“ Charon started, voice rusty-- then chastised himself for his presumptuous and informal language. Presumably, his new employer meant for him to follow. He waited until she had at least twenty steps head start, then strode after her.

 

After a moment, she paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Why are you following me?” she asked, sounding somewhat disconcerted.

 

How to respond to that? _You bought my contract? You are my employer? What the fuck-all else would you expect me to do?_

 

Opting for diplomacy, Charon replied, “I have no other orders.”

 

His employer’s head tilted. “You don’t need to take orders from me.”

 

Charon was silent.

 

The employer renewed her efforts. “I gave you your own contract back. No need to follow me, no need for orders, right?” she said, offering him an insincere smile.

 

“The physical location of the contract makes no difference, Mistress,” he replied carefully, choosing even more formal language. “It is you that I am bound to.”

 

His employer’s false smile faltered somewhat as the gravity of their situation registered. “Supposing I don’t want you to be bound to me?”

 

_Then you shouldn’t have bought my contract, smoothskin,_ Charon thought bitterly. Typical smoothskin dilettante: walking into the Underworld just long enough to wreak havoc and absorb a little misery, then waltz back out feeling like she had Made a Difference. It was clear then that she had no interest in his services—just an interest in playing the Wasteland Savior for a time.

 

“In that case, you may sell my contract, Mistress,” he said, knowing that the harshness of his features would belie his mild words.

 

“I’m not in the business of selling people,” she said, sounding insulted.

 

_Ah, but buying them, that’s another story?,_ he thought to himself angrily, hackles rising. Naïve, to think that there was some great moral distinction to be made.

 

“There must be another way,” she protested, giving him a look of frustration.

 

“Death is always an option,” he mused, unfazed. “Mine or yours.”

 

The strangest look crossed her face—as though she wanted to laugh—until her eyes met his again and realized that the suggestion was not offered in jest. Feebly, she tried again. “Couldn’t I just order you to go away?” she asked, brows drawn. “Order you to go back to Underworld?”

 

“You may,” he answered curtly, without explanation. He doubted that he was successful in keeping the mistrust from his voice.

 

She eyed him suspiciously, evidently sensing that he was withholding pertinent details. “But what?” she said. “What’s the catch?”

 

“I function best under the direct employ of the contract-holder. You may choose to exile me. However, during the time of my exile I am forbidden from seeking other employment, properties, or assets,” he replied. _Including anything more than a mouthful of water._

 

It had happened once before. His assignment, a young newlywed woman with child, had balked the first time he acted in violence in her defense. It was only Raiders—three chem-addled fiends who had slithered into the settlement in search of caps or chems—but the wholesale slaughter that Charon wrought disturbed her, and so her husband—his employer—threw his contract at his feet, banishing him.

 

Without standing orders to override the basic tenets of the contract, Charon had scrounged in the wasteland for months, scarcely eating or drinking, never resting, before finally his employer was murdered. And just like that, his contract finally changed hands.

 

His employer rubbed her temples. “What if I explicitly ordered you to go somewhere nice, settle down, find a normal job and a nice ghoulette, have a couple of little ankle-biters?” she asked-- but her tone was resigned, as if she knew the answer.

 

He paused, allowing her to grasp the idiocy of her suggestion in full before he addressed them point-by-point.

 

“Ghouls cannot produce offspring. Furthermore, an order to work elsewhere would essentially transfer my services to that proxy employer. However, I would still feel the physical compulsion to seek out the holder of the contract.”

 

His grim expression deadened further when he spoke next. “And lastly, I will provide companionship to another if that is your order. Other employers have invoked that request.”

 

The last sentence was punctuated with such barely-contained hatred that the woman took a stuttering step backwards. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said in a rush, forcing out a breath.

 

Charon glowered but did not speak. This woman wanted to free him, but she had no concept of his life, his services, ghouls, the Underworld, the wasteland. No concept of anything. Silence roiled between them for long moments as she surveyed the wasteland.

 

“Okay. You think we can make it to Megaton by daylight?” she asked, eying him speculatively. He saw her eyes travel over the surface of his old leather armor. “You sure you have no other obligations or personal effects here? Nothing else?”

 

“There is nothing else,” he said, his gaze hard. “And I shall follow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter: Nil literally gets more than she bargained for. Thanks for reading!! Hope you liked it!! c:


End file.
